The Jailbird's Tale
by Santanico
Summary: A former con talks about his stint in prison, and how he got to know SpiderMan's rogues' gallery.


Blah blah don't own anything in the Marvel U, only own the fic, blah.

Author's Note: Contains a very brief reference to my earlier Spidey fic, _Freak Like Me_ – nothing major, though.

_**The Jailbird's Tale**_

By

Santanico

Now, don't you try to sweet-talk me. No bullcrap, hahn? I know what you wanna hear all about, and it ain't my life-story. It ain't my childhood, and it ain't my boring teen years – hell, it ain't even really my stretch in the joint.

You wanna hear about _them_, don't you? The supervillains.

Heh heh. Nah, I'm not offended or nothin'. Hell, if I was you, I'd wanna hear about 'em too.

Might help you to know some background, though. Might help if you bought me another drink, too…

There we go. Now, uh, where was I? Oh, yeah. Background stuff.

Well, before I start, I wanna get one thing clear – I'm no, like, career criminal or nothing like that. In fact, that bank job was the first illegal thing I ever did – well, you know, I got a DUI once in high school, but other than that. See, Dee and me – Dee, that's Deanna, that's my wife – we were having some problems at the time. The baby'd just come along, and we had no money, and her artwork wasn't selling and I didn't really have any skills – hell, I played basketball all through high school, what the hell did I know about working?

So I fell in with these guys, you know…you know how it is, well, maybe you don't, but…

So, long story short, the robbery did _not_ go well. Seemed like five minutes later, I was bein' stuffed into a police van and linin' up for a mug shot down at the station. I got five years. Five years for five minutes. Doesn't really seem fair, huh?

Dee was pissed. I really can't blame her. I hadn't told her about the bank job or nothing, so she found out the same way everyone else did – watchin' the news. I should've told her, but I knew she'd talk me out of it, and we didn't have any other options. I didn't think she'd find out. Stupid, I know. She took the kid and went to stay with her mother – I didn't hear from her for a very, very long time…

Anyways, you don't care about this stuff. The supervillains, right? Well, I'm getting to 'em.

The judge packed me off to Rykers Island. Which, again, didn't seem fair, since I wasn't no violent offender or nothing, and Rykers is, like, violent offender central. I was pissing myself, you know? I mean, I'm no coward, but these guys…You hear about 'em on the news, you read about 'em in the papers, and they've got these nicknames, makes 'em seem less than human – you know, 'the Scorpion', 'the Vulture', 'Electro', all that kinda stuff. I figure, anyone's got a nickname, he's probably trouble, you know?

So you can imagine how happy I am to learn that I got one of the nicknamed guys for a cellmate. People call 'im the Rhino, and not for nothin', either – I mean, I get to my cell door, right, and I'm lookin' around, wonderin' where my cellmate is, and thinkin' mebbe he's in the exercise yard – then suddenly this thing I thought was, like, a shadow, or a pile of old blankets or somethin' – it _moves_, and I realise, holy _crap_, that's a _dude_. A really, really, _really big_ dude.

I'm shakin' in my boots here – I mean, this guy beat up on _Spider-Man_, you know? _The _Spider-Man! And I'm thinking, oh Jesus, I'm gonna get creamed, there's no way I'm getting out of here alive…

Well, you know what? Turns out, the Rhino – and no one ever believes me on this, but I swear it's true – is a goddamn sweetheart. He's, like, Lennie in _Mice and Men_, you know? Dumb as a post, but a nice, nice guy. 'Cept when he's pissed. I made sure that never happened, though – traded him cigarettes and stuff, taught him how to play Poker and made sure I always lost. He liked me, and I liked him.

It was through him that I met most of the others. Supervillains, I mean. Though that ain't what they call themselves – if they call themselves anything, it's 'costumes' or 'masks' or things like that. Most regular prisoners, they don't wanna hang with 'em; they either think they're creepy, or they think they're snobs.

But most of 'em ain't like that. Most of 'em, they're just regular guys – okay, okay, regular guys who've gotta wear, like, collars and things to damp down their superpowers, and – all right, I'll admit it – they're a little eccentric. Hell, you could've guessed that from the things they go around wearing, right? But, what the hell, I like eccentrics. I useta hang around with kids from the Drama club in high school. This weren't no different.

I mean, of course, yeah, there were some of 'em were just a-holes. Like Otto – I mean, Doctor Octopus, Doc Ock. Nobody liked him, which suited him fine, 'cause he didn't like nobody. Just a total snob, you know? Thought he was better than everyone else. Hung around in the corners of the exercise yard – never did any actual _exercise_, of course, the big lardass – not talking to anyone, and if you tried, he'd just act like you weren't there, or, if he was feelin' chatty, spout off some five-dollar words about how "mentally deficient" or "insignficant" you was until you got sick of it and just went away. Naw, I didn't like him. Though, to be fair, Mac – that's Mac Gargan, the Scorpion, a good guy – told me that, about a year before, Ock had gone through some kinda messy break-up with a chick called Mary Ann, or Marilyn, or something, and he'd been pretty moody ever since. What with the stuff with Dee and all, I could understand that. But it didn't make him any better to be around.

Quentin Beck – you know, Mysterio? He was a little like that, but not quite. Not rude, or nothin' – just kinda, I dunno, distant. Icy, I guess, is the word. I mean, he hung around with us and all, but he was pretty quiet. Not friendly, not unfriendly, you know? Model prisoner, for the most part. Ran the projector on movie night, and most often, the guards'd let him pick the film, since that was somethin' he knew a lot about. He chose some good stuff – _A Streetcar Named Desire, Touch of Evil, Sunset Boulevard_ – but most of the guys hated it, thought it was too artsy or corny or femmy. He wasn't like most of the others: like, they all had girlie pictures on the walls of their cells, and he had all these old movie stars, like Liz Taylor, Vivien Leigh, Judy Garland…Yeah, I never figured him out. Lotta guys said he was queer, and he knew they were sayin' it, but he never said he was or he wasn't. Sometimes he'd kinda smile, all secretive-like, if someone made a joke about it. He was okay. I heard he died a little while ago – that sucks. He might not really be dead, though. You never really know with supervillains.

Now, Max Dillon, Electro – he was nothing like Beck. A very cool guy, and a lot of fun to talk to; he gave me cigarettes when I was low, lent me money for the phone, all that stuff. Knew some really funny dirty jokes, and had a lotta energy, lotta pep. But really, really insecure. Always felt like he had somethin' to prove. I figure it's 'cause he was short and kinda skinny, you know? And 'cause most of the others were, like, professors and stuntmen and things, and, before he got his powers, he was just a repairman. (I shouldn't say '_just _a repairman' – it's as good a job as any, and, hell, _I _couldn't do it. But you know what I mean.) He was another one I heard gay rumors about, but, God, you never mentioned it to him – he would go absolutely berserk. "Who _said _that I was? Who _said _it? _Who!_" Drove him nuts. And, you know, he could never meet Mysterio's eyes. What do I think? We-ell, you know, all guys in the joint _say_ they're straight, but when the lights go out…But, naw, I'd never try to guess. It's his business whatever he is.

Oh, yeah, and there was Bill Baker, the Sandman – I always felt kinda sorry for him, tell you the truth. He was one of the few guys there who really did seem to regret the stuff he'd done, and kept trying to go straight, but it never seemed to work out for him. He was like me, didn't have any skills, you know? Didn't know how to be anything but a supervillain, didn't think he could learn, and hey, mebbe he couldn't – he weren't all that bright. Didn't even know how to use a computer, for Chrissakes. He'd talk and laugh along with the rest of us out in the yard, but sometimes I'd catch him looking kinda sad, when he didn't think anyone saw.

All this boring you? Sorry I don't have anything more juicy. Like I said, they was mostly just regular guys. And, just to set the record straight on this: they're nowhere near as obsessed with Spider-Man as the news likes to make out they are. They got lives, you know? If they ever mentioned him, it was mostly, you know, in passing, and just kinda irritated: "Back when I did that job and the goddamn Spider showed up, blah blah blah." You know – like the way most people talk about a boss they hate.

I don't mean to make out, though, that they weren't dangerous. I read the papers. I know how many people they've killed, these guys. It's just they weren't bad to _me._ I was lucky, is all.

Sometimes one or two of 'em would break out. Electro, actually, once offered me an in on one of those break-outs, even said he'd like to make me a henchman or something, but I said no. I just wanted to serve my time and get out. I was doin' it for Dee, doin' it for the kid.

When they got caught – and they always did – it was taboo to talk about it unless they did. They usually didn't like to. Too humiliating. Mostly they just acted moody a couple weeks, and you stayed away from 'em, then they'd be back to their old selves again.

I should tell you, though, that they weren't all like that. They weren't all okay guys. Not by a long shot.

Sometimes – and absolutely _nobody_ liked these times – the Powers-That-Be, in all their wisdom, would ship in the Syms. Oh, Christ, the Syms…

Huh? Oh, that's right, you wouldn't know – in the joint, they called 'em the Syms. The Symbiotes. Venom and Carnage.

Jesus, they creeped me out. They'd keep 'em at Rykers for a couple days for processing before moving them off to someplace else, Ravencroft, maybe, or the Vault So they were never there long, thank God. But sometimes you'd catch glimpses. Everybody would crowd around the gate to watch as they were being herded from the prison van. It was like the second coming of the Beatles, man. Eddie Brock, that's Venom, he'd never act like he saw the crowd at all – just kept walkin' straight ahead, back stiff, eyes front. But Cletus Kasady, Carnage, now he _loved _the attention. Acted like a rock star – muggin' for the rubberneckers, grinnin', struttin', yellin' out things about blood and Satan and all that stupid crap. Idiot thought he was Charlie Manson. I'd have dismissed him totally if I didn't know all the stuff he'd done.

Luckily, you wouldn't see 'em much after that – kept in solitary, which I bet Kasady hated. But just knowing they were under the same roof with you, you wouldn't sleep well.

And then there was the _Big _Kahuna. Oh, yeah, _you_ know who I'm talkin' about. You gotta know.

Everyone sort of talked about him like he was a myth, even the ones who knew him personally. They all knew the story – I dunno if he ever actually told anyone about it, but everyone knew. About the bridge, and the pretty blonde girl. About how he got Spider-Man to kill his own girlfriend.

I thought it was all exaggerated. I mean, c'mon, the guy's in his forties – that's older than most of the others – and he goes around in, like, a green rubber mask and purple pants? I wanted to laugh when I first heard about him. But lemme tell ya, nobody in that prison yard laughed. _Ever_. Even the guys who hated him – especially the guys who hated him.

He was another one they mostly kept in solitary. Not because he was an uncontrollable freak like Kasady, but because he'd escaped more times than anybody else. It was weird. He wasn't the most dangerous guy there (that was the Syms, between 'em), and he wasn't the smartest (that was Doc Ock). But, I dunno…he had something. Something I hope I don't ever meet again.

Oh, yeah, that's right. I met him. What, I didn't mention it? Oh.

Well, it's kinda funny, I guess. I was in the yard, and I was supposed to be spotting Rhino on the weights. But my mind kept wandering (and, anyhow, Rhino seemed to be doin' just fine all by himself), and I kept sneaking looks into my shirt pocket, where I had this old photo of Dee and the baby – who was four now. It was comin' up on the kid's birthday, and I was missin' 'em both somethin' fierce. My hands were all shaky, and I felt…I dunno, inside, somethin' hurt, hurt real bad. So I go to my pants pocket for a cigarette to calm me down, or just to have somethin' to do.

Next thing I know – quicker'n I can see – two hands slip into my pockets: one into my pants pocket, the other into my shirt. I whip round and there he is, standin' there, calm as anything. He's got my last cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, lightin' it with one hand. And in the other he's got my picture of Dee and the baby. He's starin' at it, sort of frowning, like he's studying it.

I don't know what to say. He's way shorter than me, and quite a bit skinnier. I could've taken him. I wanted that photo back somethin' awful. But something stopped me from doin' or sayin' anything about it. Somethin' told me it wouldn't be a good idea.

Two jets of smoke trail outta his nostrils and he looks up at me, with these lizard-eyes, eyes that don't give you nothin' at all. "An attractive woman," he says. "And such a beautiful child. Yours?"

I nod.

"I've been watching you," he goes on, "Most of the day. I like to watch people, you see. It comes in handy. Tells you what they cherish. What they want most." He looks back at the picture again. "Given that you've been surreptitiously gazing upon this photograph all day long, I assume this must be what _you_ want most."

I nod again, feelin' like a total ass.

He traces his thumb down the side of the picture, and bites his lip a little. "I don't blame you," he says, kinda soft. "In fact, I rather admire you."

He gives me back the photo. "You should get out," he tells me, still real soft. "You should look after them. Look after the child." He sucks down the last of the cigarette, and lets it fall to the ground. "Be sure to love him very much," he says, almost whisperin'. And then off he goes. Just walks off. I never talked to him again after that. And I'd totally forgotten to be pissed about the cigarette.

Later, I found out he'd had a kid. A grown kid, a kid who died. Drugs, or something. His talkin' to me made a lot more sense after I learned that.

And I never really forgot what he said, you know? Which is funny, 'cause we sure as hell weren't friends. I didn't even really like him – too scary for me, I guess. But all I know is, the days went by much quicker after that. I got back in touch with Dee, even thought I was scared to talk to her again after so long. I got to talk to my boy on the phone. Made me cry. Hey, screw it, _I'm _not ashamed.

I learned skills. Learned to use a computer, learned how to type and how to compose letters and stuff. I'd always thought that stuff was kinda girly, but to hell with it – I wanted a job, any job. Just so long as it got me my family back, I didn't care if it meant I'd have to wear a dress.

All this was about three years ago. And, hey, I ain't sayin' things are perfect now. Dee and I fight sometimes, and office work don't pay all that well, and the kid's school fees are through the roof. And sometimes people hold it against you when they hear about your bein' an ex-con.

But then I think about the look on Osborn's face when he was lookin' at my family's picture. And I think about how smart he is, and how feared and respected he is, and how rich he useta be. And I think about how he lost all that money, and about his kid who died, and about how he looked up at me – like he wanted to _be_ me, more than anything.

And I think, hell, I don't blame him. 'Cause I'd rather be me than him any day of the week.

My life ain't nowhere near as interesting as his. I know that. It ain't as interesting as Electro's, neither, or Mysterio's, or, hell, even Rhino's. It ain't gonna make no history books. It ain't gonna be no Movie-of-the-Week.

But it's a good life. It's a _damn_ good life. And I wouldn't swap it for any of theirs.

There you go. That's all I got. Satisfied?

Good. I'm glad.

Now how 'bout another drink, huh? And, this time, _I'm _buying.


End file.
